


Oh Well (Oh Well)

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ghost Marco Bott, Guardian Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We have survived war, terrible war. We have survived battles with monsters both inside our heads and out. We have even survived being within two feet of the edge of a cliff. But now? Now that we are engaged, now that we are moving in together, now that the friends who cried and threw up in their first real battle are getting military medals? Now my body lies cold in an alleyway, and I sit right across from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marco.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of a previous fic on my old account. i wrote through chapter 2 on my old account before losing my motivation. then, a year or so later, a very kind stranger in the comments section inspired me to edit and complete the work. so here it is. 
> 
> ((ahaha my first real post on the new account and its anime :^) take me right to hell))

I wake up and know that I'm dead.  
It's an awful feeling.  
I feel like I'm breathing my soul out through my mouth, which might actually be what's happening. But the thing is, I've got both ends of the deal, so it feels as if I'm both spitting out my own essence and being regurgitated by a cold, lifeless form. It's the worst sensation I've ever experienced, and that's saying something. I've been through horrors - fought in a terrible war that might as well have just been referred to as World War III, seen my friends eaten by monstrous beings. But through all of it, he was at my side. Jean Kirschtein. Now, with my bloodied body lying in an alleyway, he's nowhere to be found. Just my luck.

I end up waiting for days. Having finished separating from my body, I sit next to myself, finding that sensations such as cobblestone texture don't really apply to whatever form I'm in now. Though I'm sitting in a congealed pool of my own blood, with my engagement ring twinkling in the mess (it fell off, I suppose, in the struggle), I might as well be floating on a cloud. At least there are a few perks to being dead.

The police get here before Jean does, but it still takes them a god-awful long time to find my body - I can see myself decomposing. When Jean finally arrives, he looks awful - bags beneath his eyes, 3-day-old stubble, disheveled appearance. He sprints into the alley, hanging up on whoever he was on the phone with. He cries out, exclamation lost amid the many echoes and background noises - birds squawking, cars roaring past, the static of police radios, his feet on stone. The rhythmic clicking of boots on cobblestones increases in speed as he draws nearer, ducking beneath police tape, tears brimming in his already red-rimmed eyes. I'm a little surprised; he almost never cries - hasn't done it, it seems, since one of our first battles after training ended. We were young and not yet desensitized to death, and all around us our teammates were screaming and running and dying like lambs in a needless and chaotic slaughter.

Kneeling opposite me, he stares at my open, bloodstained mouth and my wide eyes, not knowing that I sit, not alive but at least well, about two feet from him. I nearly laugh - the cops are coming over to make sure he doesn't mess with the crime scene. Why they let him in to begin with is a mystery to me. Anyway, there's nothing here worth my sticking around for it. Except... I turn to where my fiancé - ex-fiancé, I remind myself; dead people don't get married - is now shaking next to a paramedic, struggling to answer the simple questions she asks. I could stay with him, as a guardian angel of a sort, though I'm not sure how much help I'll be. But after all, where else would I go? I look down at myself, realizing for the first time that I'm wearing my old uniform, complete with 3-dimensional maneuver gear and the crossed wings insignia of the Survey Corps. I died on the way back from a military function - some of our fellows were issued medals for their outstanding service, including the girl from Shinganshina District, Mikasa Ackerman, and her two friends, now all in their early twenties (Jean never got along with the brown-haired boy, Eren, back in training, but they made their peace - nearly everybody needed to chill back in the Cadets). I realize for the first time what it must have been like for Jean when I didn't show up at his apartment (which is - was - on its way to becoming Our Apartment) after telling him I'd meet him after the ceremony, that I was going to stop by the convenience store on the way to stock up on frozen pizzas for the week. That was just a cover; the real reason I wanted to shop the 7-11 alone was to get chocolate chip cookies. They're Jean's favorite, and I wanted to surprise him. I stumble around a bit, shaken as I realize he'll never eat the cookies I never bought for him.

Then I remember my uniform. I activate the 3D gear, climbing to about ten feet above Jean and hovering, something I'd never quite gotten the hang of in the army. There. See? I'll make a great guardian angel. Wings and all. "Wings and all," I repeat as I touch my Survey Corps patch, half to myself and half to Jean, though I'm sure he can't hear me.  
  
\---  
  
Two weeks later, I'm still floating around Jean, and he isn't even beginning to recover. He's at the ocean, or rather, on a cliff overlooking it. I remember this place - not even six months ago, when we'd been back from the war for awhile, this is where he brought me to propose marriage. The sun was out then, and he had brought his guitar and played for me what sounds and songs he could remember after years at war, fed by new ones he had learned since coming home. Now the air is cold, from what I've gathered of the layers of clothing he's got on, and the water far below looks dark, rocky and bleak.

I'd be nervous about how close he is to the edge, but I'm confident in my ability to catch him if he jumps - turns out all it takes to make stuff move when I touch it is concentration (a LOT of concentration, but still), and plus, if I couldn't rescue my beloved in the face of certain doom from beyond the grave, what kind of guardian angel would I be? And another thing: he's hitched a ride with Annie Leonhardt, who fought alongside us in the war - I know she'd never let him do it, and he'd never bring her along. Instead, it seems as though he's just...standing. Standing and gazing out at the cold ocean. Then he takes something out of his pocket. My engagement ring - I guess forensics found it. I experience a brief moment of panic before I realize that it is indeed mine; his ring is still shining safely on his third finger. Our rings are beautiful in their simplicity, thick silver bands into which are set single, minuscule white diamonds (one per ring). Jean presses a kiss to the diamond, and abruptly begins, apparently, talking to it. It's a short speech, consisting of the following:  
"I've had several people tell me, in the past few weeks, to hope for the best. But what what does that even mean, y’know? Especially when I have no idea what "the best'' even is anymore? Other people say to be strong, which I guess is okay. I mean, I'm gonna need that strength. Do you need it, too, wherever you are? God, look at me, talking to a ring. Have you seen me? I'm a wreck, Marco.  
"You can't hear me, can you? Well, in any case, I guess... goodbye."  
He gently throws the ring to the waves, murmuring "Ashes to ashes" as he does so. He gets back in the car with Annie, preparing to leave. Good. I'm glad he's moving on. He should. I'm dead. I am dead. I am dead and that is my ring and it is not here. It is not on my finger. It is at the bottom of the ocean and the third finger on my right hand feels cold, so cold, cold as death. I am not here, my ring is not here, Jean is not here and I am spinning, spinning, out of my own head and into the sky and the ocean and I am not in control of anything that happens anymore I am not here I am nowhere I am lost. Lost. Dead and gone forever.

When I come back to earth, shaking and feeling ill, Jean and Annie have long since left, but it isn't difficult to locate Annie's sleek black FJ Cruiser on the narrow dirt road. She looks like she's having an extremely serious conversation with Jean, but then again, she usually looks like she's having a very serious conversation with whatever she fixes her eyes on. As I draw closer, I can make out her terse, German-accented cadence. "Nobody's doubting that you loved him, Jean."  
The reply comes: "I know that, and it's not even that. It's not that I just loved him. I love him. Present tense. Nothing will change that. Whenever I love, it will always be for him. Christ, whenever I think these days, it's almost always of him."  
"I'm fairly certain that's normal."  
"I thought... I don't know what I thought. I guess I thought I was living in a dream, that I would never wake up."  
"Everybody has to wake up, Jean." There's a soft edge to her last few words.  
  
\---  
  
That night, he doesn't sleep. Again.  
Neither do I, of course, but I don't need to - dead people perks. He, on the other hand, needs nothing more. Around 1:00 AM, I lean down next to his ear, by his bedside, and whisper, though I have no idea if he'll hear me: "I promise I'll be just as strong as I can be, but you have to promise back. For a start, maybe you could get some sleep tonight."

 

 


	2. Jean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damnit. Fuck damnit. We were just rebuilding our lives. I was learning some new songs on guitar, writing some of my own. Marco, my sweet Marco with a smile like sunshine, was studying to get a degree in counseling. And all of that, down the fucking drain for some goddamn frozen pizzas. If I'd been with him, I know we could have kicked the ass of whoever tried to hurt him. I just know.
> 
> Fuck.

Miraculously, I actually get a half-decent amount of sleep that night. In the twilight between dreams and reality, I thought I heard a voice whisper in my ear, and I swear it was Marco's. I wonder if I am going mad with grief. I hope not. It was probably just a dream.  
  
Just like having reminders of Marco all over the apartment probably isn't good for my mental health, but they're there anyway. Photos all over. His favorite CDs stacked up by the boombox. Random articles of clothing from when he was trying to sneakily move in and failing magnificently. And the song. The song is the biggest one, just staring me in the face every time I pass the sofa. The guitar, the lyrics, and the half-finished sheet music and scribbly, smudged words for the song I had been writing about him are scattered across the couch, untouched since the day he went missing. His song seems to be twisting my insides with horrible, tearing pain every time I pass the sofa, with its songwriting tools just begging for me to come finish a song for a dead man. There's even a pen lying there, last touched two weeks and four days ago. I doubt it'll be touched again until I sell the couch.  
  
\---  
  
Some days, well, every day really, I'd give anything to bring him back - I would die for him, even; always would, always will - or even just to talk to him. Hell, what I wouldn't give just to hear him scream distinctly un-melodically along to a pop punk song, drowning out the song itself with what he claimed to be singing. He could have a great singing voice when he wanted to, though. He could have a great anything when he wanted to - except balance. His balance was iffy on the best days. Such are my musings as I drink my instant coffee (two NesCafe original creamers) and nuke some frozen waffles. Better than I've eaten in days, to be honest and also kind of dramatic.  
  
\---  
  
Later in the morning, an acquaintance drops by bringing casserole (what is it with casserole and condolences?) and the same tired words of “wisdom” and sympathy as countless before her. I perform the usual routine: smile, say I'm doing better, pretend I'm letting go and don't feel his death as acutely as I do. It seems to work for her, but something tells me it won't be so simple for me. I hate lying, even when I would be foolish not to, and I’ve been doing an awful lot of it lately.

I think back to the times we were assigned to different squads - not often, our superiors understood the importance of having a solid team - for missions in the Survey Corps, our division of the army. Whenever that happened after we became boyfriends, we would always kiss kind of a lot, just in case we never got to again. Then I would say "See you in Hell," and he would half-grin with his sunshine smile. Now I'm starting to wonder about all that - Heaven and Hell and Asphodel and Rebirth and capital-S Somewhere and whatever else anyone believes in. If any of those things exist, where is Marco in there now? Is he in Heaven? Hell? I don't see any reason for him to be sent to Hell. Yeah, he’s probably floating around on a cloud right now.  
  
\---

 

Another casserole condolence drops by. I cut him off at “In this time of grief and hardship” and tell him I didn’t want his damned broccoli casserole, that he can quit wasting time and breath on me just to have a clear conscience, that I’ve heard everything he could possibly have to say at least once before. He looks slightly crestfallen, and I feel very guilty, but it feels good to get the truth out. He tells me that he’ll be there for me, that he doesn’t blame me for lashing out, that I am under no obligation to feel better soon. Then he leaves. I don’t even know his name.

  
\--  
  
As afternoon becomes evening and evening becomes night, I crawl into bed, hoping for better sleep. It is debatable whether or not I get my wish. I fall asleep faster, true, but I also dream, and my dreams have been nothing but painful lately.  
  
 _Water, endless water, and I am sinking past the water lilies’ roots. My lungs are filling but I am not drowning. I am not afraid. I am holding onto a slick hand. I turn to see whose hand it is, but I think I already know. Marco sinks beside me, eyes dead and mouth open, and I know instinctively that he is drowned. I feel an immediate sense of horror building, looming behind me and casting a shadow. The water no longer feels safe as he begins to float, and I, desperately, cling to his hand. But I am being dragged down by the current into the muddy riverbed. The last thing I see is Marco’s hand, just out of reach and the blood from his chest (why is there blood? He has been drowned.) dissipating into the water._   
  
I wake with a start, cursing whatever part of the brain causes dreams.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWW DOT DREAMMOODS DOT COM basically just look everyhting up i packed this so full of meaningful dream u would not beLIEVE
> 
> also if u notice the writing style is kinda different i will love u forever bc that was the intention
> 
> this was posted all at once and late at night


	3. Marco.

I am watching, sitting on the open windowsill, as he sleeps. I wonder if he’s dreaming, and I wonder what about. I try not to think about how he’s avoiding my spot in the bed - I don’t want to go careening out of my conceptual body again. I study his face, from his strong jaw (I miss touching it) to the hair that flops over his forehead and thin eyebrows (I miss stroking it back into place) to his lips (I miss kissing them) to-- all of a sudden he wakes, gasping and with unnoticed tears in his eyes. I can’t take it. I miss him, I want to feel him in my arms again. I come down unsteadily from the window and land with no sound at all. Focusing hard, I put my hand on Jean’s shoulder. He draws back, looking vaguely unsettled. I focus harder, intensify my concentration, and suddenly his eyes widen. “Marco?” His eyes land on he, he sees me for the first time in weeks, and I am so happy, so overjoyed until he shakes his head and the tears come further down his cheeks. “No, no. You’re not real.”

“Yes, I am! Jean! I am real!”

“I’m crazy. I can’t-- you can’t be-- I’m--” He stumbles out of bed, almost falling over in his haste to avoid me. “This is it,” he’s muttering. “This is it, I’m going nowhere. I’m drinking instant coffee and yelling at people for bringing me casserole. I have nothing, and I’m seeing ghosts. I can’t pay for therapy.” He’s making his way towards the open window, and I try to block him, but he walks right through me and up onto the sill, and I can’t live with myself. I did this. I didn’t know that this is what he’d think. I watch, helpless, as he lets go of the sides of the sill. And then…

And then, time slows down. I feel burning on my shoulderblades, and instants later there are glowing wings pushing themselves out of my skeleton. I know what I need to do. Flying to the outside of the window, I put all my energy into being as solid, as whole, as good a guardian angel as possible. Then he is crashing into my arms, sending a jolt through my bones, and I am flying us down and across the street, on the pavement in the dead of night.

“You’re real,” he groans.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.” He reaches out to touch my wings, then draws back when they apparently burn his hand. Instead, he goes to thumb over my cheek, drawing me in for a kiss. It’s only been two and a bit weeks, and I’ve been with him all along, but I feel it has been longer than the longest time we’ve ever been apart. “I’m here now,” I reassure him. “I’m watching over you. Like a guardian angel.” I flap my new birdlike appendages. “Wings and all.”

His fingers find my chest, tracing the outline of the Survey Corps insignia. “Wings and all,” he sighs as my left hand comes up to trace over his jaw. He shivers slightly, and my hand drops down to hold him closer in both arms. Our lips meet again, and we kiss for minutes before I know something is wrong. I feel myself dissolving. Oblivion is tugging on my form. “I’m sorry, Jean,” I cry softly, then implore him: “Take care of yourself. Keep holding on.” I catch one last glimpse of his face, now distraught as he realizes what’s happening, before my freckles become stars and I exist no longer on this plane. Before I leave him on the sidewalk, shivering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha welcome to hell
> 
> should i write a happy ending leave ur comments below


	4. Epilogue (Jean).

Twenty-Five Months Later.

 

_Marco. Hey, Marco. I met someone some months back. Zie was at a grimy little pop punk concert, dancing to some song that nobody, to this day, knows the words to. We ended up jamming that weekend, and hir singing voice is incredible. Zie and I have hung out a lot, gone on some dates, gotten pretty serious, and yesterday zie asked me to move in with hir. I’m going to say yes, but I wanted...I don’t really know. Your blessing? To let you know? At any rate, there it is. I like to think you’d be happy I’m smiling again, and oh god, zie makes me smile._

_\--Love (even in death, even moved on, even smiling without you, always love), Jean_

_P.S. Don’t worry, we’re not in a band together. I know how shitty that always seems to work out._

I put the last dot down on the page and fold up my letter, looking up at the night sky. He probably can’t see me, I think. But right in the center of my line of sight, a golden star seems to flash, just twice, and I know he’s okay. I know we’re okay. I know I’m okay.

 

 


End file.
